


Donna Eis Requiem

by Mistress_of_Microscopes



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23129728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_of_Microscopes/pseuds/Mistress_of_Microscopes
Summary: Casefic: A dreary Friday night case for our favorite overworked team soon turns out to be much, much more. Lockwood and Co. confront an eerily crafty Visitor. Will they outsmart it and emerge triumphant? Or will they barely escape with their lives? Either way, sleep deprivation is unlikely to help their cause...Note: This is the same story as Donna Eis Requiem on Fanfiction (previously "What Began In Folly") with some editing and reorganization to improve pacing.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for characters and universe goes to Jonathan Stroud.

### 

Chapter 1

A haunted house is never a good place to pick a fight. Any agent worth her iron knows that. Visitors feed off of negative energy. They love anger especially; it’s such a powerful emotion. You could sit there in the dark and yell yourself hoarse and never notice that something _else_ is softly, stealthily growing, that something _else_ is gathering force and rising—not, at least, until it comes crashing down upon your head. Lose control on a case at the Fittes or Rotwell agencies and you’d find yourself out on the streets and out of a job quicker than you could draw your rapier. It’s a rule no agent _ever_ breaks. It’s just as vital to our well being as the biscuit rule.

And yet we at Lockwood and Co. managed to do just that. Break it, I mean. 

Mind you, it wasn’t quite as bad as the time Lockwood forgot the iron chains, or that time George made our tea with the kettle that was the Source. 

No, it was almost certainly worse. 

Although, we _did_ come out of it alive. And it _does_ make for a spectacular story. 

Would you like to hear it?

* * *

We regarded it from the gate.

The house was small, smaller than its neighbors, and dwarfed by the great factories that rose up behind it. The walls were painted white and the shutters pink, and, if I squinted, I could just see lacy curtains hanging in the upstairs windows, shrouding the insides from view. Exuding an aura of prim and feminine propriety, it was the sort of house where one might expect to find either a young woman or little old spinster resident.  


It was not the sort of house that one would expect to hold a Visitor.  


But in my months at Lockwood and Co., I’d learned to expect the unexpected. Take George, for example. On any given afternoon, he’d be slouched neck deep in the plushest sofa, face squashed in another one of his comics, unmoving as a corpse in rigor mortis. Threats of eating the last biscuit only elicit the smallest of grunts. You’d be justified in mistaking him for a sloth, or in thinking he was only capable of movement about once every century. But bring a jelly donut within a mile radius of him, and he’d move faster than the most vengeful Type Two.  


So it was not without some trepidation that I regarded the house. Our client had left for a motel a week ago, claiming it impossible to stay another night there. And, according to George’s research, the place was not quite so innocent as its appearance would have us believe.  


“Alright,” Lockwood said, pushing open the gate, “Are you two good to go? Got everything?”  


“Everything except a bit of decent sleep,” George muttered. This was true. We’d barely slept the past week on account of all the cases coming in, and exhaustion was beginning to take its toll.  


Lockwood pretended not to hear. “Excellent.” We had reached the porch. He extracted a key from one of his jacket pockets and held it out to me. “Luce, care to do the honors?”  


It _was_ my turn, so I took it, shouldered my duffel bag, and turned it in the lock. The door opened with a soft click; we filed inside. I set my duffel bag on the floor, shut the door behind me, and looked around.  


The soft grey light of the fast fading afternoon illuminated the front hall. A bare coatrack bade us welcome from one corner; quaint landscapes winked from the walls. There was a little round table in front of the short stretch of wall directly across from us, where the hallway split into two smaller corridors. A vase sat upon the table, resplendent with a bunch of wilting yellow flowers. Small knickknacks surrounded it. A thin coating of dust overlay everything. The air was musty and warm and very still. It was all very ordinary, but I thought I could detect a faint…something—an out-of-place emotion…anger? Sadness? I couldn’t identify it, but it made me edgy.  


That would only get stronger once night fell, I was sure.  


George was already moving in search of the kitchen, opening doors down one of the two corridors. Lockwood stood next to me. He, too, was looking around—but for an entirely different reason.  


“See anything?” I said.  


He shrugged. “No. But I’m hardly likely to here, am I? Our client said she saw it in the basement.”  


“Mm.” I was straining to listen, but the distant din coming from George’s direction was slightly distracting. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried my best to block it all out—block out the sounds of George cursing and knocking things about in the next room, block out the sound of Lockwood breathing softly next to me—and _listen_ …  


Nothing. Only silence, deep as a well and oppressively opaque. And that _feeling_ , picking away at my senses.  


I opened my eyes.  


Lockwood was looking at me. “Hear anything?”  


I shook my head. “It’s all quiet for now, but that’ll change soon. But listen, Lockwood, did you feel—”  


“Lockwood! Lucy!” George called, “I’ve found the kitchen!”  


Lockwood smiled at me. “C’mon. Let’s go help George.”  


We hefted our bags and strode into the kitchen.  


* * *

George had already settled himself at our client’s dainty, pink breakfast table. The chair he was sitting upon looked like it might break at any moment under the strain.  


With any luck, that would be the only thing broken in the course of the night.  


The kettle had been set to boil. Lockwood was setting his duffel down on the breakfast table; I settled into the seat next to him. As was our routine, we began sorting through our supplies while George gathered his papers.  


Silence hung heavily over us as we worked. We were much too tired to attempt any sort of conversation. Outside, the sun had already begun its steady descent. Pale light filtered feebly through the lacy curtains. The day was in its dying throes, and everyone knew it; I could see, through the narrow view offered by the window, people scurrying down the sidewalk across the street—adults, hurrying home from work. Soon, the streets would be empty. At least, empty of the living.  


The high piping of the kettle broke me from my contemplations. George sprang up to snatch the kettle from the stove. I swung the duffels to the floor to make room for the biscuits. Tea, hot and strong, was poured out; I sipped at it gratefully. The steaming heat, searing against my tongue, was a welcome distraction. My ponderings had left me strangely unsettled…or was that simply the atmosphere of the place? I took another hasty gulp of tea and focused on George, who was preparing to speak.  


“Right,” George said, crunching a biscuit, “The good news is that there’s no evidence that any bloody murder has occurred in this house, or really anything like it. In fact, it was pretty difficult to dig up _anything_ on this place.” He stopped crunching, took a slow gulp of tea.  


“And the bad news?” I asked, a tad impatiently.  


“Ah…well, that _was_ the bad news. Sort of.”  


“What?”  


He set the teacup down, made some small adjustment to his glasses. “As I said, it was really hard to find anything on this house—“  


An awful thought occurred to me. “Don’t tell me you haven’t found anything!”  


“No!” He scowled at me. “Let me finish.”  


I sat back. “OK. Sorry. Jumpy, you know. Must be the lack of sleep.”  


George snorted. “ _I’ve_ had even less sleep than _you_! Anyway,” he added hastily, “I didn’t find any evidence of suspicious deaths that might have occurred on the property, so I changed my approach. And I found something _very_ interesting.”  


From my right, Lockwood gave a muffled groan. “Don’t tell me. We’re not going to like this, are we?”  


George didn’t answer. He was busy rifling through his stack of papers. “OK,” he said, pushing his glasses up, “First thing I found: about fifty years ago, the owner was a civil servant who was accused of leaking delicate information to the press. He was sentenced to house arrest for twenty years. He died within the first ten years of his sentence. Cardiac arrest was the official report. But see, about three years later, the Times published a story that the man was wrongly accused! He was innocent, there was a great big scandal—some bigwig who testified against him was the one actually responsible.”  


“Nothing very interesting about that, George,” Lockwood said. “Rather common, actually. So, this government official is our Visitor.”  


“That’s what I thought,” George said, “but I decided to dig a bit deeper, and I’m glad I did. Here, look.” He shook some papers from his stack and tossed them at us.  


I peered at the papers closest to me, and realized they were copies of old obituaries: _Mrs Eliza Dobbs, 41, died in her Mayfair home on Tuesday of a cardiac arrest. She was not previously known to suffer from a heart condition…Mr John Taylor, 32, died in his Mayfair home last Sunday of a cardiac arrest…physician shocked…no prior evidence of heart problems…Ms Rose Whiting, 57, of Mayfair, died Saturday of a cardiac arrest…These were all relatively recent; they were reported in newspapers published within the last seventy years. There was more, from the 1800s: Mr Trevor Travis died of an apparent ailment of the heart…Mrs John Smith…died Sunday…at her husband’s home in Mayfair…Mr Edgar Cross of Mayfair_ …My head spun with names and dates.  


I looked at George. “All of them? They all died of heart attacks?”  


George shook a crumb-dusted finger. “ _Not_ heart attacks, but cardiac arrests. And no, not all the owners died of cardiac arrests. Some of them died of old age and other things, of course. But a _lot_ of them _have_ died of cardiac arrests. An oddly significant number of them, I’d say.” He sat back, biscuit in hand, crunching smugly.  


I looked down at the papers, and then across at Lockwood. He looked at me. I knew we were thinking the same thing. The familiar fire in his eyes, which had before been dimmed by exhaustion, was back and brightly burning.  


“In the old days,” he said slowly, “before the Problem, they didn’t know about ghost-touch…it wasn’t a condition. So they mistook it for something else…frostbite, maybe, or-or—“  


“An _ailment of the heart_ ,” I finished.  


“Exactly,” said George. He leaned forward, glasses glinting in the dim, dying sunlight. “You know what this means, don’t you? This house has been haunted since _before_ the Problem.”  


Lockwood was grinning. “This is excellent! If the Visitor’s been active this long, it must be really strong.” He practically glowed with excitement as he looked around at us. “This is our chance, you two. This could be big.”  


“Wait, hold on,” I said. “One question: if people have been dying of ghost-touch here all along, why hasn’t anyone reported anything recently?” I waved the stack of papers. “These people didn’t know of the Problem, but surely there have been more recent incidents? The last death was,” I glanced through the stack, “A Mrs. Dobbs in 1952. That was ages ago. There _has_ to have been something more recent.”  


George nodded. “I thought of that, too. And you’re right, Lucy, there _was_ something. It was quite a while ago, when it was still pretty early on in the Problem, so it might have been overlooked— misclassified as something more natural, you know—except it was a young couple. Two people! Much more suspicious.” He paused, slurped some tea. “So they had Fittes agents go in—this was back when Fittes was still a fledgling agency. They did the whole bit: salted the grounds, laced the bricks with iron, carted away some questionable items, had DEPRAC put the house on their monitoring list.”  


“Then what?” Lockwood prodded.  


George shrugged. “You’d think it would’ve solved the problem, wouldn’t you? And yet here we are. The house was empty for a while after the Fittes investigation. The rest is as our client told us: about twenty years into the Problem, her father purchased it, fixed it up. But they didn’t live here, they lived down in Pimlico. Then our client got the house when her father died. That was about two years ago.”  


“So…”  


“So either Fittes messed up, DEPRAC’s been lax on its monitoring, a combination of the two—which is always possible—or…something else.” A sudden seriousness settled over his expression. “And that’s the bad news. I’ve really no idea why this place is still haunted, or even why it was haunted in the first place. I couldn’t find anything earlier than the 1800s about this house. So, no idea what we’ll be up against tonight.”  


I shook my head. “Brilliant.” I took a hearty bite of my biscuit and crunched. Sugar was fortifying.  


Lockwood was more optimistic, possibly because he was still excited by the uniqueness of the case. “Oh, cheer up, Luce. It’ll be just like old times.”  


I swallowed my biscuit, glanced across at him. “Old times? Like Annie Ward, you mean? Explain how that’s supposed to cheer me up.”  


“Well, it was certainly…exciting.”  


I scoffed. “Nearly dying? Getting sued for property damage? _Exciting?_ Personally, I’d classify it as something one hopes is once-in-a-lifetime. Plus, we were still more prepared for Annie Ward. If I recall, we were already sort of betting on a Type Two and, more importantly, we were wide awake.”  


“Oh, come off it, Luce. We’ve got all our supplies this time. It’ll be _fine_. Right, George?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this story ages ago, back in 2015, and I posted immediately to Fanfiction.net without a game-plan in mind. I didn't realize how hard it would be to finish. The plot I'd had in mind quickly dissolved, and soon the story was nudging itself along in a different direction altogether from what I'd planned. I learned my lesson about impulsively posting and decided to hold off on posting anything here until I was finished. But now, I finally am! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I learned a lot about myself. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please review and let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit for characters and universe goes to Jonathan Stroud.

### 

Chapter 2

The luminous dial of my watch showed six-fifty-four. We’d finished with our customary sweep. The kitchen, as it turned out, was the warmest room in the house; all the other rooms were down by a couple of degrees. Whether that was at all significant, none of us were quite sure. But we _were_ sure of the significance of a little room in the basement, in which I could see my breath plume; and that of the ground floor parlor directly above that room, in which we’d found a cold spot.

Lockwood, of course, had called dibs on the corner room. I’d snagged the parlor. That left George to watch the stairs. He hadn’t been too bothered about that, by the look of him. 

Through the parlor window, the sun could barely be seen over the horizon; only the last vestiges of day still clung stubbornly to life. I was ready, sitting in the center of the double circle of iron chains that I’d rigged up in the corridor just outside the parlor. I’d sprinkled salt and sprigs of lavender within the boundary of the chains for extra protection. I wasn’t taking any chances tonight; none of us would be. It had taken some convincing, but Lockwood had agreed: tonight would be strictly for observation. Once we’d judged the danger, we’d come back the next night to finish the case. 

At least, that was the plan.

I waited. Night was falling fast. Darkness seeped slowly in from the thick blue-blackness of the night outside, pooling in the corners and choking the hard lines of the walls in its murky ambiguity. I pulled the ghost jar from my backpack, set it carefully by the edge of the chains. The green glow of the spirit within cast a pale, watery light over my surroundings. The skull was still and silent, but the light meant that it was present and watchful. That was fine by me. I wasn’t much in the mood for its vile talk.  


My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch; I’d gone to the stores first thing in the morning to restock on supplies. All these cases were good for money and publicity, but they were fast depleting our energy along with our stores of salt and magnesium.  


Where _was_ it? I could’ve sworn I’d shoved a packet of crisps into my backpack. Ah, there it was. I tore it open and began to crunch.  


Was it just me, or were my movements unnecessarily loud?  


Seven-fifteen glowed on my watch dial. Not much time had passed. Still…I paused in my crunching, scanned the darkness. All was still. All was silent.  


Even so, my skin prickled.  


I opened my eyes wide.  


Nothing.  


I stopped crunching and listened…  


And immediately shot to my feet, breathing hard.  


A maddened cackle resounded repeatedly in my ear—so close it seemed that someone stood right next to me, within the double loop of iron…  


I spun within the coil of the chains, rapier in hand, staring wildly into the dark—  


_Oooh, Lucy, did I startle you? Sorry, was just trying to brush up on my acting skills…I must say, I rather surprised myself. That was quite a good impression of you, wasn’t it?  
_

I lowered my rapier, exhaled. “You! You _idiot_ , what was that for?”  


The face in the jar gave an exaggerated frown. _You didn’t like it. I see…I suppose I didn’t sound quite mad enough.  
_

I rolled my eyes. “If you haven’t got anything useful to report, you can just shut up.”  


_Alright, alright. You’re no fun at all. It’s no wonder you’re talking to me; there’s no way you’ll make friends with that kind of attitude.  
_

I scowled at it. “Have you got anything to tell me or not?”  


The face in the jar winked obnoxiously. _Oh, I’ve got loads more to say…Your hair, for example. What on earth have you been doing to it?  
_

“I meant about this _house_!”  


_Oh, right. That. Well, it’s old. Very old. And bad. Very, very bad. You people certainly have a knack for getting into dreadful situations…personally, I bet you won’t survive the night, especially considering how incompetent you all are…but that’s a tad optimistic of me, I suppose.  
_

“So you know what we’re dealing with, then?”  


_Did I say that I did? No. But it’s bad, it’s old, it’s strong, it’s hungry…and more importantly, it’s smart, and the night’s still young…as are you._ It grinned, eager and sharp. _So full of life…it’s probably rubbing its hands together as we speak. Plus…  
_

“What is it? What else?”  


_No…it would be too cruel. In your last moments…no, I couldn’t say. You’re better off not knowing.  
_

__

“What is it? Tell me, or I swear I’ll—I’ll brick you up in here and let you rot alone forever!”  


__

_Well, when you put it like that…alright, I’ll tell you._ It eyed me, sighing tragically. _It’s just—That hair! And those clothes! You seem to be suicidal in general, but surely you don’t want to die looking like_ that. _I wouldn’t blame you if you ran for it now…in fact, I’d recommend it. C’mon, now’s your chance. If you don’t, some poor old chap will have a heart attack when he finds you in the morning…Honestly…quite irresponsible of you…  
_

__

It was supremely difficult _not_ to kick the ghost-jar across the room, but I knew that, as most things went with the skull, the best thing to do was to ignore it. So I took a deep breath, sat back down, and did just that. It continued its blabbering for some time before subsiding, resorting to staring out at me from the silver-glass jar and pulling disgusting faces whenever I glanced around at it.  


__

I pulled out my sketchbook and attempted to assume an air of nonchalance. Not easy to do when your nerves are on edge, as mine still were. The skull’s words had unsettled me…not to mention, I hadn’t been wrong earlier. Something other than the skull had been at work. Whatever I’d sensed earlier—and I had sensed something—may have faded back into the shadows, but I wasn’t fooled; it would be back. It was simply biding its time.  


__

It was _so_ quiet now. I could hear my watch ticking just as clearly as if I’d held it up to my ear. It was also very dark—the faint light of the ghost-jar just barely provided enough illumination for me to see my sketchbook. I drew my pencil across the page, heard it _scritch-scratch-scritch_ across the smooth, blank paper—  


__

_Thump...thump…thump...thump…  
_

__

I bolted upright. What was that?  


__

_Thump…thump...thump…thump…  
_

__

It sounded like—  


__

_Thump…thump…thump…thump…  
_

__

Yes. Footsteps. Headed straight towards me.  


__

* * *

__

Slowly, very slowly, I got to my feet. I checked my watch. Seven-thirty. Seven- _thirty_. Hardly anything was powerful at only seven-thirty…Temperature hadn’t dropped either—  


__

_Thump...thump…thump…thump…  
_

__

“Skull,” I hissed as loudly as I dared, “Skull, what do you sense?”  


__

It didn’t reply.  


__

_Thump…thump…thump…thump…  
_

__

Whoever (or whatever) it was, they were coming from the direction of the stairs—  


__

_Thump…thump…thump…thump…  
_

__

\--which meant that George had seen—  


__

_Thump…thump…thump…  
_

__

—had seen…Wait—George! Of course! I nearly laughed in relief. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? Of _course_ it was George!  


__

_Thump…thump…  
_

__

The kitchen was right by the parlor. Good old George. He’d probably nipped up to get something to eat. After all, it was only seven-thirty.  


__

_Thump…thump…thump…thump…  
_

__

So why didn’t I step out of my chains? Why didn’t I call out to him?  


__

_Thump…thump...thump…thump…  
_

__

Green light flared. The skull gave me a cheery grin. _Ooh, someone scared? It’s alright, Lucy, it’ll be our little secret. No one need ever know that you’re just a big fat wuss when it comes down to it.  
_

__

I glared at it. What was it talking about? _I_ wasn’t scared. After all, I’d survived Wythburn Mill and Combe Carey Hall. I wasn’t afraid _at all_. It was just George. I stepped forward within the boundary of my chains—  


__

_Thump…thump...thump…thump…  
_

__

“George!” I called. “You know you shouldn’t be out of your chains. Lockwood would have a fit if he knew.”  


__

The footsteps stopped dead.  


__

Silence.  


__

Why was it so dark?  


__

“George?” My voice sounded high and wavering to my own ears. I cleared my throat. “George, it’s just me, Lucy.”  


__

Still no response. The footsteps resumed, coming up the corridor, closer, closer, _closer_ —  


__

They stopped about a foot away from the chains.  


__

“Lucy?”  


__

George. Suddenly I could breathe again. “Yes. Yes, it’s me. What are you doing?”  


__

A snort. “Looking for you, of course.”  


__

“For me? What do you mean?”  


__

“Lockwood’s been calling you for ages.”  


__

Something prickled down my spine. “Lockwood’s been calling me? I haven’t heard a thing.”  


__

“Yes, well… _something’s_ at work in this place.”  


__

“Yes, that’s true, I feel _so_ on edge. You know, for a moment there, I thought _you_ were a Visitor.”  


__

“Really? Weird.”  


__

“Yes. Well, what’s Lockwood want?”  


__

“He thinks he’s found something…wants us all to come look. He asked me to come get you. So, c’mon.”  


__

“Right. OK.”  


__

I scooped up my rapier and the ghost jar and made to step out of the chains.  


__

Except, I didn’t.  


__

I hesitated.  


__

George tapped an impatient foot. “Lucy?”  


__

“Sorry, sorry.” I took a deep breath. It was only seven-thirty. Nothing was around—at least, not yet. George was right there, waiting for me, probably clutching his extra backpack of supplies.  


__

In short, there was no reason to be scared.  


__

I stepped out of the chains.  


__

Nothing happened.  


__

George clicked his tongue. “What’re you standing around for? C’mon!” He set off at a brisk pace, his footsteps echoing all around us in that tiny corridor. I followed much more slowly, rapier out in front, ghost-jar clutched under my arm, pausing every few moments to take stock of my senses.  


__

Down the stairs, into the black chill of the basement. I paused once more when we got to where I thought the middle was. I could see absolutely nothing. I couldn’t _hear_ anything either. But there was a heaviness to the air. It pressed, cold and cruel, against my chest. Malaise. Strong, too. Yes, something was stirring.  


__

Wait, where was George?  


__

He wasn’t in front of me anymore…When I’d paused, I hadn’t heard anything…not even the sound of his footsteps. And he _had_ been rather loud...  


__

Well, I’d been trailing behind. Perhaps he’d already gone to Lockwood, thinking I was behind him. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed me pause…  


__

Yes, that was it. They were both there now, in that little room, waiting for me. They were probably getting worried. I’d better hurry.  


__

I switched on my torch for a brief second to get my bearings. I was in the center of the basement, just as I’d thought. And the little room was just in front of me. I flicked the flashlight off, took a step forward. I’d just walk in, cool, composed—  


__

Something rustled behind me. Eddies of cold air swirled at my back. My feet reacted before my brain did; I hurtled toward the little room—  


__

“Who’s there—Oof!”  


__

“ _Ouch!_ ”  


__

“Lucy?”  


__

“Lockwood?”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now things are ramping up! :) Tell me what you think, please! I'd love to hear from you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit goes to Jonathan Stroud.

### 

Chapter 3

Someone—Lockwood—flicked his torch on, and I was momentarily blinded. When my eyes adjusted, I realized that I was standing at the edge of a double circle of chains. Lockwood’s rapier jabbed at my ribs—I’d run straight into it. Had I not stopped when I had, I’d have been completely skewered. We stood there for several moments, frozen, staring at each other.

Slowly, Lockwood lowered his rapier and extinguished his torch.

“Are you alright?” he asked after a pause.

“Yes, fine. Sorry to keep you waiting.” My eyes were closed as I said this. I was letting them readjust to the dark.

“Waiting?”

Seven seconds had already passed, but for some reason I didn’t open my eyes. For some reason, I kept them tight shut.

“Yes. Waiting,” I repeated. “George said…said you’d called. Isn’t that right, George?”

There was a second of silence. It felt like an eternity.

“George?”

“George…isn’t here. He’s on the landing.”

I opened my eyes. Lockwood was standing in front of me, frowning. Lockwood, and no one else.

My heart began to dance a jive with my lungs. I looked once more about the room. No one. “But…he was just here. Wasn’t he?”

“No, Lucy. He wasn’t. Sure you’re…alright?”

* * *

Ten minutes later, I was sitting cross-legged within the iron circle, clutching the spare canteen of tea. Lockwood was sitting beside me. He was rubbing absently at his chin, deep in thought. At length, he said, “You spoke to George?”

I swallowed my mouthful of tea. “Yes.”

“You’re certain it was him.”

“No, but...it certainly _sounded_ like him. What kind of Visitor can do that?”

“A Fetch?”

“A Fetch usually manifests itself. You know that as well as I do.”

“Yes…but perhaps it was trying to use an advantage it saw. Your Talent, Luce, is extraordinary, but it’s also a vulnerability.” He aimed a pointed glance at the skull, which sat beside us.

I frowned. “I see your point, but…it seems odd, doesn’t it?”

His teeth gleamed in a wry smile. “Odd in which way?”

“Well, it spoke to me. Actually _spoke_ to me, a real proper conversation, like the skull. It knew our names and everything. And second, it didn’t…well, it didn’t really accomplish anything, did it? It went to the trouble of convincing me that I was talking to George, and it even got me to step out of the chains—but it didn’t _do_ anything! It didn’t try to touch me at all, just…led me down here. What do _you_ think?”

“I think,” he said, “that it’s played a very neat trick in an effort to unsettle us. It targeted your Listening, and it mimicked George’s voice.”

“You think it was just trying to scare us?”

“What else could it have been trying to do?”

I frowned. “I don’t know. I just…I feel as if there was something more to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Ugh! It’s so hard to figure out anything in this place! Have you felt it too? Like you can’t think clearly?”

“Yes, I feel it. Like a sort of haziness in my head. I don’t like this, Luce. I think we need to regroup. Let’s get George and set up in the parlor, I think—what is it?”

I had got to my feet. Something had just occurred to me. “George should’ve been on the stairs, right?”

“Yes. On the landing.”

“But…I don’t think he was.”

“What?”

“He’s not on the stairs, Lockwood. I went down the stairs, remember? He can’t have been there…I _definitely_ didn’t pass him. And it was pitch dark and empty—he should’ve at least had a candle lit if he… And if he _had_ been there, he’d have asked what I was doing, tried to stop me…But he didn’t…” The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that I had not, in fact, passed George. There had not been the slightest indication that he was there, standing guard, when I had gone down—nor that he had ever been.

A chuckle, a snort, a burst of spectral laughter—the silver-glass jar flared green from its place on the floor by Lockwood’s chains—I’d dropped it when I’d run into him. For a moment, the skull regarded us with malicious amusement, before winking out of sight.

I looked at Lockwood. He looked at me. We drew our rapiers. So much for observation.

* * *

The landing was empty when we reached it.

That, in itself, would have been worrying enough. But there was more.

George’s chains had been kicked—or else blown—open into a sprawling semi-circle. Worse, the battered rapier he insisted on using was lying forlornly on the ground. I had no idea how I hadn’t tripped over it on my way down, for it was lying at an awkward angle close to where the landing ended, near the steps.

“It’ll be alright,” Lockwood murmured, half to himself, “He always carries a spare, always has that extra backpack…”

I was furious with myself. “ _How_ could I not have realized this before?”

“It wasn’t your fault, Lucy,” Lockwood said grimly. “ _That_ was why it lured you down—it wanted to distract you. Whatever it is, it’s smart, and it’s done a bang-up job of manipulating us.”

I closed my eyes. I should have trusted my instincts then—that prickle of unease before I’d stepped out of the chains had been warranted. Had I listened to it, I might have deciphered all of this much sooner. I gripped my rapier tighter. “We’ve _got_ to find George, and quickly.”

“Yes.”

The ground floor, too, was empty; the double circle of chains I’d rigged earlier sat there still, undisturbed. There was no sign that George had sought refuge in them, nor that he had been there at all--nothing had been knocked over, nor were there any tell-tale scatterings of iron or salt.

All was hatefully still.

The prickling in my head was worse than ever; it seemed to me now that I could almost hear a low psychic hum, whining thinly beneath the sound of our boots on the parquet floor, muffled and weaving in and out of my sphere of awareness. It was almost as if there was something blocking the noise out, preventing it from reaching my ears.

I didn’t like it at all, but I had more pressing matters to worry about.

Lockwood and I had arrived at the stairs to the upper floor; we had circled through the ground floor with no luck. Nodding to each other, we began our ascent, rapiers raised.

* * *

We were halfway up the stairs when we heard it: a low, anguished cry.

_George._

I raced up the stairs, Lockwood at my heels. At the top of the stairs, the prickling feeling and the low hum disappeared, and suddenly I could hear the sounds of conflict quite clearly: the sound of iron canisters exploding, the clang of a rapier as it embedded itself in something. It was coming from one of the bedrooms, farther down the hall. I flung myself toward the door, scrabbled at the doorknob—only to find that it was locked. I rattled the doorknob violently, shoved my shoulder against the door—but it was shut fast. “Lockwood! The door—”

Lockwood had reached my side. Pushing me out of the way, he threw himself at the door, snarling with effort. It shuddered but held. He stepped back, ripped a crowbar from his workbelt, and resumed his efforts. I drew my own crowbar and joined him.

Every second spent tearing apart that door, all the while listening to the clang of George’s rapier and his occasional gasps of pain, felt impossibly long. But then, finally, we were through.

I rushed in, rapier raised high, iron canister clutched in hand, just in time to see George roll to the side at the far end of the room as a Phantasm--its faint form just distinguishable as a woman with long coils of dark hair and blue-tinged skin--lunged at him.

In a flash, Lockwood was there, getting between the ghost and George, his rapier like liquid silver, humming as it arced through the air—so fast that it was barely visible as he hemmed the Visitor in. Meanwhile, I ran to George’s side and pulled him to his feet.

“Lucy?” he gasped. His face was whiter than I’d ever seen it.

“Yes, it’s me. You’re all right?”

He nodded.

“Lucy!” Lockwood had managed to hold the Phantasm off fairly well, but now it was feinting with its coils of hair, advancing on him as he backed slowly away, his rapier whirling furiously. I still had the iron canister clutched in my hand—I primed it, took careful aim, and threw.

It landed perfectly: right in the center of the manifestation. The explosion of filings sent up a plume of violet and silver-blue sparks as the iron caused the apparition to tear itself into wisps.

For a moment, it was silent, save for the sound of our labored breathing.

“C’mon,” Lockwood murmured, after a moment or two, “let’s get out of here.” He nodded toward the center of the room, where ribbons of ectoplasm were already beginning to band together as the Phantasm reformed.

On shaky legs, we maneuvered out the door, down the stairs, and into the parlor room, where we collapsed into the safety of the double ring of chains.

* * *

“What on earth were you _thinking_?”

I blinked. This, admittedly, was not what I had been expecting George to say once he’d regained his breath.

He was staring at me, his normally inexpressive features contorted into a look of outrage. His pallor had fled, had given way to cheeks flushed with anger.

None of which made any sense to me whatsoever. “Er...what do you mean?”

“Oh, don’t play the innocent! You were hellbent on ‘investigating’--wouldn’t listen to a word I said! Not that you ever do, but still, you would _think_ , that with all the close calls we’ve had, that you’d take my advice a bit more seriously--”

“Er, George,”—here Lockwood broke in—”Lucy—”

“And don’t _you_ defend her! You keep letting your emotions get in the way—you hardly ever punish _her_ when she’s out of line; you’ve really got to learn to separate work from--”

“ _George!_ ” Lockwood’s voice had taken on a slightly strained quality. “Just listen--”

“After Bickerstaff, I would’ve thought you’d gained some respect, some understanding for my contribution! But today you saw fit to go haring off like some sort of daft sheep, hurling yourself into danger without any thought for the consequences because—”

“ _Daft sheep?_ ” 

“George—”

George adopted a ridiculous high-pitched voice: “Oh, yes, look at me, I’m Lucy Carlyle, and I’m just _so_ Talented and I’m just _so_ much better, and I can’t stand anyone who hasn’t got _just_ as much Talent—“

I recoiled, stung. “I’m not like that!

“George—"

“Oh yes you are! You know the real reason Fittes didn’t hire you, or Rotwell, or any of those big agencies? Not because they couldn’t see your talent, no, quite the opposite! It’s because you can’t even tell a Visitor from a hallucination!”

Indignation flared. “ _Me?_ I’m not the one who followed a ghost all the way up to a locked bedroom!”

“I followed _you_! Where are those stellar instincts you claim to have now, eh?”

“That wasn’t me—”

“Don’t even _try_ to—”

“George—”

“Shut _up_ , Lockwood!”

“No, _you_ shut up!” yelled Lockwood, “George, you’ve got it all wrong!”

“Oh yeah?” George whirled on Lockwood. “So we’re going to brush it off again, this reckless behavior of hers? What’s your defense this time? That she’s a ‘great agent’? Please! There are twelve-year-olds who could do the same with half the drama!”

“ _Excuse me?_ What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means! You complain, then you do whatever you want anyway, getting us into a right mess, then you swan off scot free acting all high-handed—”

“Scot free? You shunned me for a week after the mess with Annie Ward—”

“George! It wasn’t Lucy!”

“—I’m so sick of double standards—”

“Double standards! After what happened with Joplin, you should be glad that—”

“I _knew_ it! I _knew_ you wouldn’t let it go—”

“IT WAS THE VISITOR!”

We froze, startled, staring at Lockwood.

George unfroze first. “Lockwood, you can’t seriously be—"

“It wasn’t Lucy, George.” Lockwood’s expression was marked with a rare openness, and the grave tone of his voice made clear that he was serious, that he was telling the truth.

George knew it too; his flushed cheeks paled, spectacles flashing silver in the half-dark. “Oh. Oh god.”

Quiet fell. We stared at each other, breathing hard.

Except, I realized, with a sort of distant horror, it wasn’t quiet. Not anymore. Because something, somewhere, was singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that bit where George yells at Lockwood about separating work from personal matters is absolutely a subtle jab at Lockwood's **feelings** , and Lockwood's 'strained voice' when he cuts in is a result of desperation as he attempts to keep George from revealing too much in front of Lucy.
> 
> So...they've broken a pretty important rule now. Whatever shall happen next? :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Jonathan Stroud and W. A. Mozart.  
> Soundtrack for this chapter: _Lacrimosa_ , Requiem in D Minor, by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

### 

Chapter 4

_La-crimo-sa di-es il-la_

_qua re-sur-get ex fa-vi-la_

_ju-di-can-dus ho-mo re-us_

The voices rose up all around us—a ghostly choir. I didn’t ask Lockwood or George if they heard it, too; it was evident by their sudden pallor that they did.

_La-crimo-sa…_

It was hard to think. The music seemed to suck all my thoughts out through my ears. I couldn’t even hear my inner voice, the one that so often whispered life-saving intuition. All I could hear was the music, that haunting melody, swelling and fading again and again through the loops of time…

Trying hard to ignore it, I asked, “Where do you think it’s coming from?”

“Hard to tell,” said George. “Sounds like it’s coming from all around…”

“But there’s no manifestation. There was a Phantasm upstairs, though, perhaps…” Lockwood trailed off, his expression going slack.

They _were_ all around us.

Multitudes of ghosts, clustered in amongst the genteel furnishings of the parlor, glowing palely, their forms made yet more faint by the sliver of moonlight shining through the heavy drapes of the French windows. They were toe-to-heel, shoulder-to-shoulder, wall-to-wall. Some were wedged into the furniture. They came right up to the edge of the iron chain, jostling each other for space. Their numbers continued into the hallway beyond.

They were all singing.

_Huic ergo parce deus…_

Looking at them head-on, it was impossible to distinguish one wispy form from another; it was like gazing into a mass of twisting smoke. I used the old trick of looking away, then glancing through the corners of my eyes. Even so, I could only distinguish the few closest to me. The rest seemed to shift and blur constantly, and my eyes ached when I tried to get a clearer look.

Directly opposite me stood a gentleman in a greatcoat. His eyes were deep wells of darkness. I couldn’t look at him for very long. Beside him was an old woman wearing a flowered apron. Just beyond Lockwood’s elbow was a young couple. The man’s hair was slicked back, and the woman wore a pale pink shift dress, similar in style to something Marissa Fittes might have worn in her youth. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I thought their faces might have been tinged with blue.

_La-crimo-sa…_

“It’s the owners,” I whispered. “They’re the owners who died.”

“Killed,” George corrected, also whispering, “They were all killed.”

“Good God,” said Lockwood.

Something was bothering me. “They weren’t here before. They _weren’t_. How did they do that? Just suddenly appear?”

George was shaking his head. “I don’t like this. It doesn’t feel right. Look how many there are! Nothing I read indicated there could be so many...it’s more than just the owners, this is massive! And then the Phantasm upstairs…Nothing makes sense.”

“And why are they _singing_?” It was really starting to get on my nerves. The melody was dark, oppressive, and seemed to weigh as heavily as malaise.

“Lockwood,” said George, “how are we going to get out of here?”

Lockwood didn’t reply immediately. His dark eyes flickered back and forth, assessing. Finally, he turned back to us, flashing his megawatt smile—the one he used on Inspector Barnes, on irate tax collectors, on me and George while trying to wheedle us into a particularly bad idea. At the sight of that grin, I had a premonition of dread.

“Why, we’re not going to leave.” He said this as if it was the most logical conclusion in the world.

_Lacrimosa…_

George and I gazed at him. Lockwood’s grin wilted slightly. “Lucy, you’re doing that scary thing with your eyes.”

“Too right I am! What do you mean, we’re _not_ leaving?”

“Yeah,” added George. “You can’t mean we’ll stay the night here. They’ll only get stronger as the night goes on, and the chain might not be enough to stop them.”

I nodded. “That’s exactly right. Lockwood, we really should leave. Tonight was supposed to be observation. We’re not equipped to handle something on this scale.”

“Yes, I know, and that’s all very well,” said Lockwood, “but do either of you see a way out?”

We turned back to gaze at the deadly sea of pale, shining forms. Unfortunately, he had a point. The choir has closed ranks. Perhaps if we could cut a path through them—? No. Salt wouldn’t do it. Iron might have, but even if we’d manage to throw enough canisters to clear a path, we’d still have to contend with the rest—the ones out in the hallway. I’d no doubt they’d converge on us the second we made a move. And flares—well, we couldn’t use them in a confined space like this. My bank account was still protesting from the last time we’d tried.

We were stuck.

_Pie Jesu domine…_

“Alright,” I conceded, resisting the urge to cover my ears against the music. “But if we get an opening, we leave immediately.”

“Seconded,” said George.

“Agreed,” nodded Lockwood.

“Getting awfully close to a democratic process, this,” quipped George.

Lockwood laughed. “Whoever said we weren’t a democratic outfit?”

“You did,” George replied.

“Yes…that was meant to be ironic.”

“Sarcastic.”

“No, I’m sure it’s ironic.”

“Really? A few months ago, you still didn’t know the difference.”

“Yes, well I’ve done some research, and _now_ —”

“Will you two please shut up?” They looked around at me, startled.

“Right-o, Luce. Sensed something, have you?” Lockwood had edged closer to me and was now looking around, alert, hand on his rapier.

“Maybe…” I tilted my head. It was hard to hear under the blasted singing, but I thought I heard another, subtler psychic noise. A crackling, or a hissing. What’s more, the awful prickling in my head was back. “I think something’s coming.”

Suddenly, the music swelled.

_—ACRIMOSA DIES ILLA_

_QUA RESURGET EX FAVILLA_

_JUDICANDUS HOMO REUS_

The ghosts were looking straight at us, their haunted eyes intent, their faces full of pale fire, like the cast of some demented musical. Their mouths were moving faster and faster, their arms raising; the crowd was pressing closer. One of them tried to cross the iron line but rebounded with a green flash of ectoplasm.

“They’re getting antsy,” muttered Lockwood.

“Temp’s dropping,” declared George, “fast!”

Ghost fog was coagulating in the corners of the room, roiling through the crowd of apparitions and licking at our iron boundary. The air was thick with malaise.

_DONNA EIS_

_REQUIEM_

And then it happened. The singing stopped. The room went black.

The little light streaming in from the windows was smothered. Even the faint ghost light of the phantom choir seemed to dim. Suddenly I was hyper-conscious of our breathing, fast and loud in the sudden silence as we gasped in piercingly chill air.

Wait.

I could hear my own pulse thundering in my ears, could hear my own lungs noisily sucking in air. Then there was George on my right, breathing in great, gusty pants. And on my left was Lockwood, taking quick, sharp, almost-controlled breaths. All of that was fine, right, expected.

So then…who did that long, slow, rattling breath belong to?

“Guys,” I said, barely whispering, “do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” George hissed back. “Hear _what_ , Lucy?”

“The—the breathing!”

“What breathing?” Lockwood asked.

Light flared, sudden, blinding. I cried out, covering my eyes. I heard a rasp of metal as someone unsheathed their rapier. Beside me, George gasped.

A sigh rippled through the room. The choir of voices recommenced, chanting a low melody, though now they sounded fainter, more distant.

_Donna eis_

_requiem_

_Donna eis_

_requiem…_

Blinking, I opened my eyes.

The room was preternaturally dark, despite the light flaring before us. The ghost choir was still there, though their forms were now almost impossible to make out. It was clear, though, that they had parted, making way. Their heads were bowed, their hands meekly joined, their blue lips moving faintly in a prolonged chant. It was almost as if they were paying obeisance to the luminous figure now coalescing in our midst.

It was tall. Its height put me in mind of Bickerstaff’s ghost: it seemed to flow endlessly upward, looming thinly. But there the similarities ended. While Bickerstaff’s ghost had been a dark, cowled figure, this Visitor radiated a bright, piercing light, more intense than any ghost-light I’d ever seen before. Its legs were silvery columns, around which swirled a blinding white robe. Its head, high above, brushed the ceiling; wreathed in wisps of ectoplasm, it glowed greenly, its features indistinct, save the eyes. The eyes were blank, dark, cavernous. There were other details, fainter. There was a suggestion of long, lank hair. Behind its torso, two long shadows extended, shivering, into the void. They reminded me, strangely, of wings, grotesque and twisted though they were. Where their sweeping expanse presided, the other Visitors were extinguished, dissolving into wispy fragments and winking out of existence.

The prickling in my head had graduated to a disconcerting jabbing. The tiredness I’d been pushing aside all week suddenly bore down on me in full force. I wanted nothing more than to sink to my knees, to close my eyes. After all, what was the point? We were trapped, stuck in a room full of Visitors, under-equipped to handle the most powerful visitation we’d experienced yet. This time, the Skull was in luck; this time, we were surely done for…

No, that was the Visitor talking, leeching away my strength, my hope, my will to survive. I could not submit to its will, I _would_ not. I had survived worse and would endure more. I drew my rapier, listening to the familiar rasp of iron, allowing it to steel my conviction. I exchanged glances with Lockwood and George, taking heart in the determination I saw reflected in their eyes. We were a team, and we were going to get out of this alive.

We stared up at the Visitor.

Dark and abyss-like, its dead eyes stared back.

_REPENT!_

I reeled, nearly dropping my rapier. Its voice was crushing, like great boulders smashing together, worse than the loudest of thunderclaps. Judging by how Lockwood and George had cringed backward, they had felt it too.

_REPENT, FOR YE HAVE SINNED!_

We dropped to our knees, clutching our ears, felled as one. Above, the glowing giant loomed, arms and legs twisting at freakish angles, head rolling and careening this way and that. Ectoplasm sparked, dropping off in globby, gray-green bits. A sickening pit formed in my stomach as cold realization struck. It was trying to find a weakness in our boundary.

And then, abruptly, it stopped. The apparition vanished. The choir was silenced. The room fell still.

For a moment, we stood there, stunned.

“What just happened?” asked George.

“I’ve got no bloody idea,” said Lockwood.

Another beat of silence. We stared at each other, unsure what to think.

“Well,” said Lockwood finally, “we’ve got a clear path now. I think we should make a go of it—what is it Luce?”

I’d put up a hand. I had heard something, a faint noise. A voice? No, it was gone.

“Never mind,” I said, “I thought—”

A door slammed shut.

We gazed at each other. It was the front door. Hadn’t it been shut already?

Footsteps sounded down the hall, clicking purposefully. They paused by the parlor entrance, then continued in, then stopped just after entering.

A chill rattled down my spine. It was all eerily familiar.

“Tony, you in here?”

We exchanged shocked glances.

There, beyond the boundary of our chains, stood a figure that was unmistakably Quill Kipps, from his carrot-red hair, to his glitzed-up rapier, to the familiar annoyed superiority on his thin, woefully freckled face.

We stared at him, jaws agape.

“ _Kipps?_ ” said Lockwood, disbelieving. “What—”

“Case has been transferred to Fittes now, Tony. I came here to take preliminary readings. What’re you lot still doing here? Weren’t you notified? Surely you respect that the client has decided to consult…more reliable services. Hanging about after the fact—well, it’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it? Not to mention illegal.” Kipps smirked, an unpleasant expression that highlighted his flaring nostrils and overall sallowness. “Well? What’re you standing about for? You’re not needed here. Best get out now, while I’m feeling generous, and I won’t report you for trespassing.”

“ _Trespassing?_ ” cried George.

“What—I—that is— _Excuse me?_ ” Lockwood was, uncharacteristically, floundering.

“That’s not Kipps,” I cut in firmly, staring Not-Kipps straight in the eyes.

George glanced at me, pale, understanding lighting in his eyes.

Lockwood hesitated, glancing between me and Not-Kipps, the haze clearing from his dark gaze. “Right. Right, yes, of course.”

Not-Kipps fixed me with a puzzled stare. “Julie, is it? I’ve got no idea what you’re on about. Look, you really do need to get out of here before the rest of my team arrives. I won’t be able to avoid filing a report on you if you don’t leave before then.”

“He’s not Kipps,” I repeated, resolute.

“No,” agreed Lockwood, “no, he’s not.”

Not-Kipps sighed. “Oh, Lucy.” Slowly, a smile spread across his face. I had seen Quill Kipps sport many an unpleasant smile, but never had I seen one so thoroughly malevolent. Beside me, George shuddered.

“Repent,” the thing said in Kipps’ voice, “for you have wronged."

And then it was changing, its form blinking, futzing, flickering.

Suddenly, Inspector Barnes stood before us.

He was dressed in a brown suit, his moustache as droopy as ever. Beneath his hat, his eyes were dark, blank caverns.

 _Repent_ , the thing said in a voice that was not quite Barnes’ nor quite its own. _Repent for judgment is come._

_Lacrimosa…_

We were surrounded once more, the throng of ghosts with their somber faces crowding around the Visitor that had created them. Secondary hauntings clustering around a primary manifestation. Classic.

_Repent, repent!_

_Lacrimosa…_

The Inspector-Barnes-shaped figure was flaring with light, slowly expanding, weaving and sparking in a familiar dance…

“Right,” said George abruptly, “I’ve had enough of this.” He produced yet another spare rapier, took aim, and lobbed it straight into the expanding heart of the Visitor.

The bright light winked out. A gust of air buffeted us--a psychic shockwave sweeping outward. A precipitous silence took hold.

“Nice one, George,” I said. Lockwood was grinning, clapping George on the back. We stood like that for a few moments, exuberant, triumphant.

Then all hell broke loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stare into the abyss and the abyss will stare back...is that how it goes?
> 
> Ah, poor Lockwood. The old irony vs sarcasm conundrum; a quagmire into which many a great mind has stumbled. I'm sure he'll figure it out...eventually.
> 
> Mozart's Requiem in D Minor was the last piece he ever wrote. In fact, he died before he could finish it, and it had to be finished by his pupils. _Lacrimosa_ refers to the Christian Judgement Day and the resurrection of the dead. According to lyrics translate, the meaning is:
> 
>  _Lacrimosa dies illa_ \- Mournful that day  
>  _Qua resurget ex favilla_ \- When from the ashes  
>  _Judicandus homo reus_ \- Shall rise a guilty man to be judged.  
>  _Huic ergo parce, Deus:_ \- Lord, have mercy on him.  
>  _Pie Jesu Domine_ \- Gentle Lord Jesus  
>  _Donna Eis Requiem_ \- Grant them eternal rest.
> 
> Fitting, don't you think? I was a bit surprised how well it worked. Truth be told, I picked _Lacrimosa_ only because it's the most haunting/sorrowful melody I could think of. Looking up the lyrics gave me a pleasant surprise, and some material to work with.  
> I hope you're enjoying so far. Please let me know your thoughts!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to Jonathan Stroud.

### 

Chapter 5

Though George’s rare instance of good aim had, in fact, taken care of the primary haunting, the secondary Visitors were another story. The absence of their collective murderer seemed to bolster them; their forms regained their previous radiance and their voices swelled. They eyed us hungrily, surging toward the chain circle, heedless of the sparks flying as their kin rebounded.

“We’ve got to get out of here _now_!” I yelled, slashing my rapier through the outstretched arms of a man’s ghost as it rushed the chain boundary. “The Visitor could reform at any moment!”

“There’s so many of them,” cried George. “How are we going to get past them all?!”

“Plan J!” Lockwood yelled, his rapier awhirl, “Execute Plan J!”

“Plan J?!”

“What the _hell_ is Plan J?!”

“Oh, for the love of—do _none_ of you listen during strategy training?!”

“Um—”

“Don’t answer that! Look, just get behind me, both of you! I’ll cut a path forward, and both of you stay behind me. Lucy, to my left. George, to my right. Defend the sides and back. Ready on three!”

George and I scrambled into place, rapiers raised, iron canisters clutched in our spare hands.

“One!” Lockwood slashed his rapier through the air, cutting a woman with rollers in her hair in half.

“Two!” George and I swiped our rapiers through the ghosts on either side of the newly dissipated apparition, then braced ourselves.

“THREE! GO, GO, GO!”

We were off, George and I walking almost backward, slashing and parrying, our swords whirring through the air.

Disembodied faces rushed at us. Ghostly arms reached out, fingers attempting to grasp us, hold tight. We hacked frantically through them all, half-walking, half-running towards the exit. I hoped to god that none of us had been ghost-touched, but with the burning chill of the house, it was hard to tell the difference between a ghostly embrace and the choking, cold air. Gray wisps of things surged past me. I slashed and parried, panting, slashed and parried, twisting ward-knots in the air with my rapier.

“Cover me!” yelled Lockwood. By some miracle, we’d reached the door. Lockwood was fumbling with the doorknob. George and I turned fully to face the onslaught, the apparitions pouring from every corner of the house to rush at us, to hem us in, to entrap us in the same fate they’d been doomed to suffer all these years. I threw down my canister, spilling iron filings in a line in front of us. Simultaneously, I brought up my rapier, stabbing through the leering face of a lanky old man reaching for my neck. I slashed and hacked some more, panting with exertion, feeling the sweat dripping down my neck. Beside me, George was panting, too, his face set in a snarl as he stabbed and hacked his way through the onrush of ghosts.

And then, suddenly, we were stumbling through the door, barreling down the porch, crossing the property line and seeking refuge in the bright white circle of light cast by the ghost-lamp in the street.

From here, the little unassuming townhouse was lit up, its windows and open front door suffused with greens, blues, and violets. As I watched, a pale blue wisp of a ghost tried in vain to follow our path down the porch but was promptly sucked back into the house. It was as we’d hoped; the haunting was too local. We were safe, beyond the house’s influence, too far for any of them to reach.

We stood there awhile, panting, shaking, feeling the sweat cool on our necks, checking ourselves for injury.

“Everyone alright?” Lockwood asked, at last.

We nodded assent. Aside from the fact that our clothes were undoubtably ruined by the ectoplasm burns, we had escaped unscathed. We stood there a few moments more, catching our breath.

A thought struck me.

“The Skull!” I gasped, horrified. “I left it in the basement!”

“Not to mention half our supplies,” muttered Lockwood. “Just when kit is getting especially pricey.”

“We are _not_ going back in there,” George snapped.

“Of course not, we’re not insane,” I retorted.

“We’ll have to go back first thing in the morning,” Lockwood said, “retrieve everything.”

“Yeah.”

“Definitely.”

Exhausted as we were, we would have lingered in the street awhile longer, had not Lockwood’s keen eyes noted an unsavory shadowy figure lurking some distance down the street. It was probably just a Tom O’Shadows, but given the night we’d just had, we didn’t want to take any chances. We trudged back home, sore and fatigued, glad that we were alive.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All credit to Jonathan Stroud

### 

Epilogue

The Skull was safely retrieved the following morning, along with the rest of our supplies. Of course, its whining at being left behind was insufferable. After a few minutes of its accusatory rambling, during which I unsuccessfully attempted to offer an (undeserved) apology, I flipped the lever and let it yammer on in silence.

In the end, we recommended to our client that the property be dug up. It seemed the thing to do, considering the oldness of the haunting, as George had found in his research. We supervised the excavation. During the day, under controlled conditions, I tested them using my sense of Touch. It took a few days, but we found what we were looking for. It was a ring, a simple gold band, much weathered by time, with a ruby set in it. The instant I touched it, I felt that awful prickling feeling once more. 

The sensations I got from it were vile, to say the least. If you want to know, the ring belonged to a man. An heirloom of some sort based on what I saw. He’d been lonely, friendless, ostracized by his own family. Abused—first by his parents, then by bullies, then finally by his own, tormented mind. The cruelty he’d endured had made him, in turn, cruel. Perhaps to shield himself, he’d developed an inflated sense of self: a God-complex, if you will. It explained the words the apparition had spoken, its insistence that we repent. 

Like all ghost stories, it was a rather melancholy one. We did our bit; informed DEPRAC, turned the artifact over to Fittes Furnaces. We all watched it burn. There were several more artifacts that had to be burned along with it—antiques and odds and ends left behind previous homeowners over the years. Afterwards, just to be sure, we strengthened the ironwork DEPRAC had laced into the bricks of the house ages ago and added some more. It seemed to do the trick. Our client was satisfied, and we never heard of anymore untoward happenings at that address.

We got our bit in the _Times_ , too, among other publications: _Cluster Haunting in Mayfair No Match For Local Agency: Exclusive Interview with A. J. Lockwood, Founder and CEO, page 3_. Lockwood, however, was surprisingly muted in his description of the case. Though he mentioned that we’d faced a Fetch (for what else could a thing that imitated people we knew so accurately be?), he made no reference to the strange cunning of the monstrous thing we’d faced. Nor did he protest privately about our being only on page three, rather than page one. Such modesty in Lockwood, who was usually so keen to claim the spotlight, was unusual to say the least. Eventually he admitted that it had something to do with Barnes. Apparently, the fact that we, a small, independent agency, had succeeded where the almighty power of Fittes and DEPRAC combined had failed rankled.

All in all, it was a good outcome, considering. We’d broken key rules and still come out alive. It was lucky, and now at least we wouldn’t make the same mistakes again. I was glad to put the case behind us, and move on to better things, as were Lockwood and George. 

Still, sometimes I dream of that giant, twisting form. And when I wake, chilled, I can’t help but wonder at that lonely, melancholy life. A man whose only legacy was violence begetting violence, through life and death alike, and an old ring that was now little more than cinders in an underground furnace.

The only remedy to these brooding episodes was a hot cup of tea, and the welcome reminder that life wasn’t like that, not for me.

No, basking in the warmth of Portland Row, laughing with George and Lockwood, I knew I would never be so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you thought of it, please. Reviews are what motivated me to finish this in the first place :) I love hearing what you all think, and what you think I could do better.


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